


Eight Elastics

by MissMelysse



Series: CrushVerse [34]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 10:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20813909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMelysse/pseuds/MissMelysse
Summary: Data muses about Zoe's penchant for wearing her hair in braids, and what it means when he's allowed to undo them. OneShot. CRUSHverse. Data/Zoe.





	Eight Elastics

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity Note: Takes place during chapter 14 (Transition, Part I) of Crush III, Sostenuto.

_"A girl without braids_  
_ is like a city without bridges."_  
― Roman Payne, _The Wanderess_

Eight tiny elastic bands. That is precisely how many it takes Zoe to tame her long, unruly hair into the two braids she always wears when she is planning to be out on the water swimming or surfing.

Data has watched her process: secure her hair into two long "ponytails" first, close to the scalp, on either side of her head, then weave each one into the plaits she prefers. Securing each at the end brings the total number of elastics to four.

But Zoe's hair is not all one length; there are layers, some shorter than others, and so she binds them with four more elastics – two to a side – one set roughly a third of the distance from the top, and one set roughly a third of the distance from the bottom.

"Perhaps a different style of braid would be more efficient," Data suggested one morning when they were on vacation and readying themselves for one of their almost-daily treks through the jungle near their home (for he considers it thus) on Terlina III. "I am familiar with many techniques of weaving hair. I would be happy to…"

"Maybe another time," she says, cutting him off with a smile and a kiss. "I never learned the trick of French braiding," she adds in a confessional tone. "I've always had to have someone help me. When all the other girls my age were reading fashion zines and playing with hair and makeup, I was in the water, or in the music room, or in rehearsals… or in my father's liquor cabinet."

"I would be happy to teach you," he offers, making no judgement about the 'wild child' ways his lover practiced as a young teenager on Centaurus. Zoe then is not Zoe now, and while the one informed the other, he understands that there is no way to reclaim experiences lost to time and other choices.

"Really, it's not necessary. This works for me. Besides, I'll probably cut it when I get to school."

_Please do not_, he wants to say, because the mass of chestnut waves is endlessly fascinating to him. But he does not make the request. It is _her_ hair. It will still be _her _hair, long or short, with the chestnut, brown, red, and gold tones overlaying each other, now merging, now separating, each reacting with the light at a slightly different frequency.

He stops offering to help. Stops suggesting different styles.

But when they get home from hiking, when she returns to dry land after one of her aquatic sojourns, he guides her to the bed and sits behind her, with his legs framing hers, and her hips and buttocks pressed against him, and he takes them out, one at a time, each tiny elastic band.

Eight elastics.

She relaxes as he separates the strands, brushes through the tension-kinked tresses, releasing them into warm ripples that remind him of fresh soil, of the coffee she drinks each morning, of the sunrise they witnessed just that morning, and of the sunset they did not pause to observe.

Zoe's hair flows over his hands, tendrils curling around his fingers.

Data wishes he had the words to express what this small intimacy means to him. He yearns to be able to explain it to her: that the waves and curls of her hair have become his obsession. He must commit them to canvas. He can never quite get them right.

"Mmm," Zoe says when the brush has been set aside. "I love it when you play with my hair."

"I love you," he tells her, nuzzling the top of her head, and placing a kiss there.

He wraps his arms around her, his hands meeting beneath her breasts, and she leans backward against his chest. There is no need for words; their mutual silence is just another part of the intimacy he treasures. A part he knows is precious to her, as well.

She leaves her hair loose as they move out to the living room for tea and a light meal. Fruit, cheese, warm bread, a couple of squares of dark chocolate. He tastes everything she eats, but it is only for the experience. The memory.

The next morning, or the next after that, Data will watch as she repeats the procedure with her braids, and he will allow the anticipation of undoing them build slowly within him.

Eight tiny elastics.

Eight tiny elastics in his lover's hair.

Eight tiny elastics for him to remove.


End file.
